Dig
by Whitaker
Summary: Swindle looked for the sentimentally that he knew Hot Rod needed—that he thought, for sure, Hot Rod needed. But their eyes locked only for a second before the redhead ducked, teeth scuffing harshly over his throat.  IDW:AU


Title: Dig

Characters: Hot Rod, Swindle

Pairings: Hot Rod/Swindle

Warnings: PW[much]P, oral, sticky

Backing: IDW-AU, in which Ultra Magnus is like DESERTERS? FUCK YOUR SHIT. And destroys their transport, and he gon' be back with the wagons, bitch. Swindle [not yet finished with Menasor] needs to keep the team together, needs to keep Hot Rod moving and on his side. So he does his slimey thing. I love Swindle. And Swindle being an Autobot. [….and Swindle…_falling in love?_]

* * *

"Hey, kid."

He glanced back—not that he needed to. The sound of Swindle's tight drawl had already burned into his processors. He glanced back to see how close Swindle was. Swindle could get close really fast. One second, Hot Rod said he could be in the same room, and the next second, the salesman was at his side. Most days he didn't mind, but sometimes it scared him. Today, Swindle came up slowly, hands dug into his pockets. Today, he kept a distance.

Swindle stopped three-feet away. His eyes fell from Hot Rod's to the ground, and back up. "You doing okay?"

"I'm…" Hot Rod exhaled slowly, mouth open wordlessly.

"…We can rebuild."

At this, he could no longer hold eye contact. Hot Rod turned, bowing his head with a muttered curse. Thumbs pressed to his temples, he could see the smaller mech's feet coming closer. He imagined Swindle's hand raised, poised to settle over his shoulder should the Combaticon decide to be a comfort.

The slick voice was unusually low, dripping out like sap from earth's trees. "It's really not as bad as—"

Hot Rod stood, spinning on his heel to face Swindle. "He destroyed _everything_!"

"We made it once, we can make it again."

"With _what_?" His voice cracked, and the larger mech stepped closer to recover the loss of composure. "We used everything we had, Swindle! There's nothing left—no materials, no energon, no morale, not anymore—how am I supposed to—" He stopped himself short, hand clamped over his own mouth.

Swindle's face contorted. His lips pursed and worked over his words, finally opening with scolding insistence. "You have to do _something_, Hot Rod."

His hands shot up, open forward at the sides of his shaking head. "Please, Swindle—I can't do think about this right, now, I need—"

"You _don't _need to _think_, Rodimus!" The sharp tone drew his attention. Swindle's way was sweet and heavy, not like this. Not harsh, never shouting. Hot Rod couldn't suppress a baffled frown as the little bot scolded him. "That's what you have me for. That's what you have Prowl for. We need you to _act_!"

He did it again; before Hot Rod could tell how he was moving, Swindle swelled closer to him, hands planted against his arms. The touch, while not entirely novel, buzzed through his uniform (his old uniform, now just a plain jacket), and Hot Rod shrank under the wiry grip. When Swindle spoke again, he pleaded, let his lips part softly between words. His thumbs worked desperately over the joint of Hot Rod's shoulder. "You can't be hesitant now. If you pause—" He pressed his lips together gravely. "—Hot Rod, I can't keep the others here if you aren't strong."

"I have _nothing left_, Swindle."

"Dig a little deeper, then, huh?" A grim smile, and Swindle let go to tap the redhead's chest, then stepped back, hands in his pockets. "I mean…you've got me."

Hot Rod absently rubbed his chest where Swindle had touched him. "And if Ultra Magnus comes back and takes you away? What the hell am I supposed to do then?"

"He won't. He can't. If he wanted to, he would have already. He respects you." The statement pulled a short, cold laugh from Hot Rod. "And anyway, you'll always have Prowl." A real laugh this time, and Swindle smiled, ducking his head. "And the other 'cons will be ready for you. I'll make sure they are."

Hot Rod bowed his head, fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. A tight sigh hissed through his mouth.

Swindle clicked his tongue. "Well, listen, tiger. I've got a pair of Stunters having a hissy in the barracks. And you know, clean up." His lips twitched up in a not-quite-smile. "If you need me, I'll be around, hmm?"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Hot Rod returned the pacifistic smirk, and gave Swindle a flick of a wave good-bye as the thin mech turned and roamed heavily away. In the moments just before the black head disappeared down the hill, a fearful twist yanked his stomach into a knot. Hot Rod groaned, sinking to a crouch, rocking steadily on his feet.

* * *

He stretched across his berth, head against the wall, legs dangling over the edge. The position cut off energon flow to his legs, but the growing numbness came as a comfort. Swindle knew the list of things he could be doing. The list proved impossible to forget, even now in the static of what should have been time for his recharge. He would do them, oh certainly—the instant he could stand.

He didn't know how long he lay on the berth, staring at the ceiling. Every imagined minute, however, passed with a tiny mental warning—time is running out. The runaway seconds screeched for their own rescue before sliding away, so many more wasted moments that he wasn't working, wasn't recharging. His eyes opened wide, unblinking, as though he could see the time flying by if he stared hard enough.

He stopped cycling air. The slip didn't strike him immediately. Rather, the function returned with a start when a loud rap on the door brought him back to full consciousness. Swindle sat up suddenly, intakes whirring with sudden activity. The rush of air left him momentarily dizzy. Feet regaining feeling, he carefully slid off the berth. He paced to the door and adjusted the rolls of his sleeves. His head stopped swimming as he hooked his fingers into the door latch and exhaled.

A jerk of his arm, and the door slid open. "Yes?"

Hot Rod's hands coiled together. He lifted his chin, fixing his eyes resolutely on Swindle's from the step below the door. He puffed up with intake, setting his jaw before saying shortly, "Swindle."

"Rodimus?"

"...You told me that—that if I needed anything, I could come to you." The statement sounded well-rehearsed, but no less stilted for the rehearsal. He pulled his lips together, slipped his hands into his pockets.

Swindle almost laughed; it had been weeks since he'd seen Hot Rod unsure in this way—so small. But instead of chuckling, he slid down the step. Hot Rod stepped halfway back to give him room, as he planted himself loosely on the dirt. Swindle let his arms slack, draped over his hips, fingers laced just below his belt. "What do you need?" The tilt up his head up and to the side stretched his neck and bared the side of his shoulder. He pulled his lips into a small, open smile.

Because he knew what Hot Rod needed, and a triumphant buzz tingled from his sides and his mouth and his spine—from anywhere the taller mech touched as he leaned forward to consume. Hot Rod moved slowly—not hesitantly by any means, but the lightness of the contact spoke of caution. Swindle lifted himself up on his toes to aggravate the near-chastity of the kiss. A high, encouraging hum against Hot Rod's mouth, and his hands tightened around Swindle's backstruts. The curling hold pressed their stomachs together; Swindle waited for a moment, then broke the kiss with a gentle shove against Hot Rod's chest.

"Hang on," Swindle laughed quietly, "we should, uh…we should really take this inside, don'cha think?"

They did. Hot Rod backed him up the steps, partly with his hands, partly with an insistent nuzzle to his cheek. It was something reminiscent of herding, Swindle concluded as he stumbled over the threshold. The topple was nearly planned, less so than the bracing hand he clamped around Hot Rod's neck to keep himself steady. He laughed again, a soft simple noise, a reward for the soft simple smile that teased from the taller mech's mouth. Getting his feet back under him, Swindle pulled away and edged around Hot Rod to shut the door. "I'm sure it's been hard for you, without your friends around."

He meant to express sympathy, but Hot Rod inhaled sharply, guiltily. Swindle leaned protectively against the door as the commander turned. "Uh—you know, I don't think—I'm sorry, Swindle, this is…wrong, this was stupid."

"Oh, Hot Rod." He swept forward, closing the gap and body-blocking Hot Rod from the door. His fingers folded gently over Hot Rod's mouth, thumb tapping his jaw. "No. No, no, no. Why are you doubting yourself?"

"I'm not. It just seems—it's like, wrong to just come to you and—"

Swindle chuckled, head falling back. "What, you've never had a—a one-nighter?"

"Sure, but—"

"You never," he licked his lips, hands sliding over Hot Rod's neck, "never needed to blow off steam?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"How is this any different?"

Hot Rod's face twisted in his thought. "…I don't know."

"Then let's do this."

"Are you sure?"

Affected disdain crawled through his energon lines. Swindle flattened his lips, fingers loosening from their knots at the top of Hot Rod's backstrut. He snorted softly. "Are you?"

The musculature beneath his hands twitched and tightened, and the Autobot lurched into another kiss—something, Swindle noted with satisfaction, corrupted by challenge. He let his neck swing back to absorb the impact, paused against Hot Rod's lips for a moment before pressing back till their teeth crashed and he had to open his mouth to accommodate the proximity.

And the motion sent Hot Rod off like a shot. He thought he was braced for the larger mech. But, the instant his lips parted Hot Rod was inside his mouth, tongue scraping across the roof. A surprised squeak sounded somewhere in the back of his throat, and wide palms kneading his sides worked the sound into a low hum. The hands ran up, squeezing too hard, and Swindle couldn't keep the cooling air in his body. He panted erratically between strokes, between kisses, until Hot Rod mercifully pulled away.

There was a moment between. Between the break and his drowning gasp, Swindle looked for the sentimentally that he knew Hot Rod needed—that he thought, for sure, Hot Rod needed. But their eyes locked only for a second before the redhead ducked, teeth scuffing harshly over his throat.

"Oh, my _god_." He huffed. The arms around his body tightened—lifting, constricting—and he hooked his elbows over Hot Rod's neck as one hand dragged down his body to squeeze his leg just below the hip. He trembled from lack of air.

Hot Rod's voice tickled into his neck. "You okay?"

Swindle laughed once, mouth tight. "Yeh. Yeah." A long swipe of Rod's tongue over his pharyngeal fuel line. "_Yes._ God, y—" The hand on his back crawled up, wrenched into something just below his shoulder blade, and he hissed. "You don't play around, do you?"

"Sorry." A series of kisses along his jaw to his chin that forced his head to rock back until Hot Rod stopped. "It's been…a long time." The younger mech nearly smirked as Swindle brought his head back down, mouth hanging open. "And I've been watching you for a while."

He wanted to be flattered. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, lowered his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Mm."

Hot Rod straightened, fingers easing away from Swindle's skin, leaning their foreheads together as the wandering digits came to rest just underneath his jaw. "That's not creepy." Swindle murmured. The lack of contact itched under his skin; he leaned forward, digging his fingers into the waist of Hot Rod's pants.

"No—" A brush of their noses. "—no, it's definitely creepy. Sorry."

He wouldn't have minded the contrite expression, if it wasn't such a goddamn turn off. The last thing that he needed was a turn off, just when he was getting in closer. "Stop apologizing." Swindle whispered and sucked at the other's lower lip, punctuating it with a swipe of his tongue. "I'll kick your ass out if you keep that up."

A grin finally tweaked out of the Wrecker's mouth as he began to take single, heavy-set steps backwards towards the berth, gently pulling Swindle by the jaw.

Hot Rod's legs bumped the berth, but Swindle slid on first, taking the opportunity to be closer, to seek more than a two-hand touch. On his knees, he arched over Hot Rod, dipping in and out of his lips, curving into and out of his touches. Hot Rod was tugging the smaller bot's shirt out of his waistband, ghosting his hands over the plane of his stomach. The fabric bunched at his wrists as they climbed higher. When the shirt began to tug at the small of his back, Swindle kissed him shortly and swept his hands away.

"Hang on," he breathed, pressing his mouth clumsily into the hair behind Hot Rod's ear, "You take off yours."

He began to shove out the buttons of his shirt, fingers imprecise with hurry. Before he had loosed even half of the white fasteners, Hot Rod had shucked his jacket, shed his black undershirt, and yanked his belt open. Swindle looked up at the jangle, third button popping free. "Good shit, kid."

Verbal response seemed too time-consuming; Hot Rod simply reached forward and tugged his hand down the front of the shirt, jerking all the remaining buttons off.

"Rod, this is my only—"

"I'll sew 'em back on." He promised languidly, hiking a knee onto the mattress. His hands coiled over Swindle's shoulders to push the shirt away. The air in the room felt chilly after the hot press of his palms. Swindle quivered as the garment slid past his elbows and that mouth descended again on his neck, plunging lower now to grind over the tip of his collarbone. His head swam, overheated by the sudden resumption of _so much_ contact. Warmth pooled over his stomach as Hot Rod bit, licked, kissed his way down Swindle's chest. Hot Rod eased him down to the mattress, hand splayed over his stomach momentarily before dragging around to his back and delving past his waistband.

His body stiffened almost painfully as Hot Rod roughly clutched his aft, soreness of the day reawaking and rising to the surface of his skin. The aches collected underneath his companion's firm strokes and at the rim of his lips, bursting and dispersing with a low, grinding moan. Just below his ribs, Hot Rod looked up and sighed admiringly. The hand pulled out of his pants, rested just over the closed zipper. "You're beautiful." Came a murmur against his chest.

Swindle rolled his eyes, unseen, and slid his fingers into Hot Rod's hair. The thick locks slipped easily through, thin oily film leaving the slightest residue on his hands. "Stop it."

"You are." A sweet bite at the base of his PC chamber, a possessive rub just below his arm. "Every time I look at you—you're so finely constructed."

"Hot Rod."

"Like you would just snap in the wind." He scraped his thumb over Swindle's nipple, earning a displeased hiss. The noise blossomed into a full gasp as he closed his mouth around the sore spot, swirling his tongue over soothingly. The hand at Swindle's groin pressed stiffly down and rocked slowly between his legs and back. Down and back. Swindle's hands tangled harder into his hair. "But look how solid you are."

"Ugh, shut up." Swindle panted. He fed his need for reciprocation by pulling his leg up to slither across Hot Rod's crotch, a light mimicry of the motion dragging his own body into a haze. The sudden rush of hot breath against his chest set a self-satisfied boil off in his energon, and Swindle continued more forcefully, "Take off your pants."

He didn't care enough to make corrections when Hot Rod proceeded to open _his_ jeans, but sat up and unbutton the Corvette's pants himself. He reached between Hot Rod's arms, hindering the other bot enough to give himself a whole two-second head start. By the time he pulled down the zipper, Hot Rod had already dug his thumbs into his waist bands and begun tugging. Swindle wrapped his arms momentarily around Hot Rod's back, lifting his hips to facilitate the strip, letting go to fall back and finish kicking the slacks off. Between the nakedness and the lack of touch, it was suddenly very cold.

Crossing his bare legs (resisting the urge to tug them closer to him), he looked up to Hot Rod, who was quickly pulling his own remaining garmentry off. Hands twisting around his ankles (not anxiously, no, just something to do), he started to ask, "Hey, listen, can we turn the lights o—"

The silencing kiss felt more like an attack; it knocked him onto his back. Desperately, Swindle pushed up against the mech over him. In the two inches of space between Hot Rod's mouth and his, he gulped in air ("wait—wait") before closing the distance with a seeking tongue. Hot Rod met him, hands wedging underneath his body, hauling him up till they touched skin-to-skin. Each new point of contact fizzled uncomfortably at the edges, and Swindle twined his arms tightly around Hot Rod's neck to bring himself closer—or to bring Hot Rod closer to himself.

He dropped, disappointed and buzzing, and Hot Rod rose over him, arms stretch straight, hands planted on either side of his head. His leg thrust in between Swindle's. The unprotected caress, wide and solid pressing into his slight frame, rippled from his still-closed 'face panel. His thighs squeezed around the knee. "Are you gonna tease me all night?"

Hot Rod grinned, ground against his plating before replacing the knee with his hand on the inside of Swindles thigh. "Open up."

Swindle paused, pressed his lips together, flicked his tongue out to wet them—took a deep breath and a long look direct into Hot Rod's optics.

A single finger tracing some unknown pattern over his panel. "Swindle?"

"Rodimus." He breathed a count to himself, one, two, and on three let his panel slide open. Hot Rod stilled, fixated on him, blue eyes sharp and too bright. Here was the sentimentality—it was late, but here, as he imagined it would be. He watched Hot Rod's shoulder move, and his hand shot down to stop the taller mech from touching him. "_Rodimus_." A stumbling gasp and sigh. "Be careful."

Hot Rod's quiet, sympathetic gasp stirred a victorious thrill in the seat of his stomach, a sensation that mixed well with the slow insertion of a finger into his valve. He squelched the urge to arch into it, to escalate faster. He needed the time, because Hot Rod needed him to need the time. Swindle whined appropriately when Hot Rod added another finger, and the third shortly after, at which point he deemed it fitting to roll his hips with the steady pumping. The tandemic movement brought him closer to what he wanted—the flex of the hand stretched painfully, filled shallowly—but he had already abandoned real hope of satisfaction. It turned bitter the sweet curl of digits inside him, but lessened the pang of absence when Hot Rod eased out. The Autobot cleaned the offending fingers with his mouth, a gesture that could have been obscene. Coming from Hot Rod, it was not. Still, Swindle squeaked in the back of his throat, a sound not entirely planned.

Above him, Hot Rod asked if he was ready. Swindle told him that he was.

The appreciative groan as he slid inside, face hovering just beside Swindle's cheek, dispelled the anxious tension in the smaller mech's chest. He laced his fingers around the back of Hot Rod's neck, closed his eyes and whispered encouragingly in his ear. He coaxed him forward with words, with high moans, with the curl of his legs. The fit was…comfortable. Nothing weak, nothing strenuous. He relished the leisurely heat of Hot Rod's mouth on his ear, arms penning his body on either side, full gradual thrusts barely lifting him off the mattress. He dredged some noise up from the base of his vocalizer for every sway, for each dragging stroke, for each tender-tough kiss. The little effort seemed fruitful. Hot Rod's noises rumbled low in his chest, transmitting through the dense air when the vibrations didn't travel directly from his bones to Swindle's.

Swindle, for his part, pressed forward, wilted, rolled as needed, but the transaction registered too sweet and too vocational, and he wasn't sure how long he rode Hot Rod out—but every imagined minute passed with the silent celebration of a plan coming together. He closed his eyes, resting a hand reassuringly at the base of Hot Rod's neck. The Corvette's rhythm fell apart, breath and motion spiking haphazardly as he hit his peak. Swindle felt the square jaw clench against his neck, intook heavily as a spread of liquid heat puddled in his core. As Hot Rod systematically relaxed (from his neck, down his shoulders, down), Swindle turned to press a slow kiss below his ear.

"Good." He sighed. "Good."

The Autobot took a few seconds to steady his breath before raising his head and returning the kiss. The first press against Swindle's lips was soft, a grateful gesture to lead into the firmer second, a prelude to a third, delving kiss that dropped the knot of nervousness straight to Swindle's gut. "Not yet."

Swindle scowled, pulled his mouth in a confused smirk. "You serious? Why not?"

"You're still charged up." Hot Rod drawled matter-of-factly, kissing Swindle's nose before swaying upright.

"That's, heh," He propped himself up on his elbows. His dermal plating tightened under the drag of Hot Rod's palms down his stomach. "That's fine, Roddy. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not gonna just leave you waiting." The young bot pushed his hair back, tucked what he could behind his ears. "Don't worry. It shouldn't take long." A pause from his slow bending down to smirk apologetically. "I mean, I hope it won't."

"Hot Rod, seriously, you don't have to—"

"Let me do this."

"No—Hot Rod, I don't want—ah!" His hand shot to his mouth as Hot Rod's smoothly covered his spike. Abruptly his cooling systems jolted on, struggling to accommodate not only the understandable heat (Hot Rod nodded indolently, swallowed around him) but also the unreasonable flush that burned in his face and hands. The reaction, a misshapen offspring of shame and shyness, swirled with sudden arousal in a nauseating amalgam that had him spinning even as his head dropped back to the mattress. He kept his fingers wired over his lips, second hand snapping down to pull angrily at Hot Rod's hair as the Autobot made a noise—a hum with which Swindle was not unfamiliar—that tore an embarrassing keen from out of him.

He wheezed through his own vise, "Rod—Roddy, please stop."

A small snort, and Hot Rod pulled up to slide back down, seamlessly sliding his fingers into Swindle's still-moist valve, driving in and up.

Swindle arched off the berth, shouting something that he was sure was real words. After the first arc, Hot Rod appeared to be dissatisfied unless Swindle was twisting in near discomfort. The muffling hand eventually came down to join the other, holding desperately to that thick hair like it would slow the onslaught. A particularly warm twist of the tongue, a particularly vicious thrust, and overload jerked through his thin limbs, pulled out like bones yanked from a fish. His most conscious thought was to call the right name. It wasn't Hot Rod, Rod, or Roddy. Rodimus. _Rodimus._ It rolled out easier that he expected.

He offlined, or came something damn near to offlining. A moment passed in blackness, but it couldn't have been long. The dark faded into a foggy haze, and Swindle rolled halfway to his side and looked across the mattress to Hot Rod. The redhead smirked, swallowed hard before wiping an indigo smear from the corner of his mouth. "Now it's good." He laughed.

Swindle only stared, heaving air in and out of his chest.

"Um." Hot Rod bowed his head awkwardly, but the childish smile would not fade. He slid off the mattress, scooping his pants off the floor and pulling them on. "I should go. Uh—I'll see you in the morning?"

Breathing belabored, Swindle watched blankly, half-awake, for another few moments. Then, he reached out, fingers snagging Hot Rod's pinky. "Wait."

Blue eyes found his, still glowing too bright.

He let his lids fall closed, and rolled over till his back was towards Hot Rod. A heavy, sighing invitation: "Just stay here."

He didn't turn to see Hot Rod's reaction. He didn't need to, and he didn't care. It was the right move, a strategic play, he promised dimly as the lights snapped off. He hardly shifted as Hot Rod pulled the sheets first out from under him, then over his bare skin. The Autobot lay on top of the fabric, shirtless, pants still open, a chaste version of impropriety with his chest pressed against Swindle's now-covered back. Swindle assured himself that the arm closing over him was a move for possession, and not affection, because that's what it was. Another minute ticked away behind his eyelids, and he dropped off before he could begin to care.


End file.
